


Mr. Postman

by littleireland



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amazon, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Pining, Tea, unusual careers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleireland/pseuds/littleireland
Summary: The last person Draco Malfoy expected to see on his porch step delivering his Amazon package was Harry Potter.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This was so fun to write. I really hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.  
> A huge thank you to matsinko for the thoughtful suggestions and encouragement which helped this back off the ground when I was in a creative rut.  
> All mistakes are my own.

**__** __

_The first time he sees him the first frost of the year has touched the ground but melts away from the flowerbeds at high sun._

A knock on the door pulls Draco from his work. He’s written almost half the day already and his fingers are cramping but he’s _nearly_ done. One romantic, heart-shattering installment left to submit before his novel series is complete. Waylon leaps from the desk as soon as he hears the offensive ring of the doorbell followed right after the knock, sloshing cool, forgotten tea all over his parchment. Draco rolls his eyes as tea blends the words _frost_ and _flowerbeds_ together. He shakes his head and stands, wringing the tension from his shoulders with two hard rolls of his neck and back.

“Just a moment,” Draco calls to the door.

Instead of spelling away the liquid, Draco gently lifts his parchment and pushes his quill aside. He takes a bit of crumpled napkin he’d used as a plate for his biscuits and dabs at the spreading tea, catching any droplets before they can smear any more of his ink. He’s done this enough to not let it bother him anymore. Anyway, these are merely Draco’s drafts. He’s due to meet with his editor later in the coming months to go over any revisions before his book is submitted for publishing. From there, someone else will be given the task of transcribing every single word, anecdote, and metaphor to a high class, leatherbound book in which they’ll be sold in muggle bookstores around the world.

Large yellow eyes flick to him with disinterest before Waylon, his spoilt, unmagical - but you'd better not breathe a word about it, and entirely too self-important cat blinks at him from his feet. The slinky, tea-spilling black feline is hot on Draco's heels all the way from his desk, across his plush carpet, down the hall, to his front door. He lets out an impatient chirrup when Draco doesn't get his hand on the knob of his dark oak door fast enough.

“Careful, Way,” Draco coos, using the toe of his shoe to gently wedge himself between the door and Waylon. “What have I told you about strangers?”

The man standing at Draco’s door when he opens it, well the back of the man, is clad in a dark khaki green uniform that almost reminds Draco of a soldier. He’s got on black combat boots and a matching khaki hat is so snug over his head that black curls spring out angrily from under it and for a moment, Draco wracks half his brain for any of his past offenses that would have brought the muggle armed forces to his house. The other half he allows to stow away the tight pants grip the man’s firm arse in just the right ways, perhaps for a future novel. He glances to the left and right where he finds both neighboring houses quiet before he clears his throat.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Draco says calmly. “How can I help you?” He keeps the door cracked just enough for him to stick his upper body out while keeping Waylon at bay with his lower half.

The man turns and Draco has to think quickly before the man notices Draco’s jaw on his fucking doorstep because standing right in front of him holding a small package with the words _Amazon_ written all over it is Harry _fuck_ ing Potter.

While Draco tries to remember how to breathe, in and out, he thinks, Potter meets his eyes briefly before gesturing with about as much disinterest in Draco as Waylon after he’s finished dinner to the package he’s holding. “Morning, you’ve got a package.”

With about as much elegance as a fish out of water, Draco snaps his mouth shut with a click before nodding with too much enthusiasm and not enough composure. They stand there looking at each other long enough for Draco to see that no, he isn't crazy and yes, Harry Potter is standing on his doorstep waiting for him to take his newly ordered desk lamp. Shoving his arms forward with as much indifference as he can possibly muster, Draco accepts the package.

“Thank you,” Draco says, keeping his eyes trained on Potter’s face. Surely he hasn’t forgotten Draco? Draco annoyingly hasn’t forgotten Potter. Well, he had compartmentalized Potter to somewhere at the back of his brain and sat him happily at the top of the stack of other _things_ that reminded Draco of a life he could never partake in and caused him to grind his teeth at night. The truth was, Draco hadn’t actively thought about Potter in years and the sight of him in a post delivery uniform, staring oddly at Draco as if he is about to raise a hand to feel the temperature of Draco’s forehead bothers him more than it really should. But then Potter isn’t looking at him anymore, isn’t squinting his emerald eyes at him anymore, is turning to walk back down Draco’s porch steps and back to his boxy truck. _Wait_.

“Uh,” Draco blurts with enough ineloquent to make him cringe. “Good day.”

Fucking “ _Good day_?” Who the hell is he? Mary Poppins?

Potter turns and quirks his thick eyebrows at Draco. “Bye,” he waves awkwardly before gripping the rail on the side of his truck and trapezing in. He’s down the street before Draco can recover.

_The next time he sees him the days have become shorter and winter’s chill has become insistent. He’s nervous but he isn’t afraid. This time he’ll make an impression that’ll last a lifetime._

When the knock comes Draco is expecting it so he snatches he tea up before Waylon boomerangs from his desk. Only one piece of parchment falls to the floor. He smooths his robes, grey and smart, while he stands and makes his way down the hall to the foyer.

He has no idea whether Potter will be the one to deliver his second lamp today, a lamp he absolutely does not need, but he's hopeful. He'd lasted an entire month before caving and placing another order. Really, Draco can't be surprised. He'd hoped that he'd be able to neatly tuck away the image of Potter in his stupid uniform and stupid truck away for good and simply forget about it. The problem is, nothing ever comes simply to Draco. So here he is, opening his front door to swing wide this time, keeping Waylon at bay with the back of his ankles, clutching a half-full cup of tea, and staring at Potter's unbothered face.

Waylon meows at Potter, happy to see a new face for Draco’s lack of company.

“Is that your cat?” Potter asks, ever obviously, craning his neck to take a closer look at Waylon. Draco shifts on his feet so that Waylon can squeeze along the doorframe and out onto the porch. He steps out carefully and sniffs the cold air before deciding it isn’t overly offensive and paws over to Potter. His paws leave perfect little melted prints with each step he makes towards Potter.

“He is,” Draco replies, smiling a little with the corner of his mouth when Waylon coils himself between Potter’s legs and rubs his silky black cheek into Potter’s khaki pants. Draco lets the lopsided smirk linger momentarily just as he would have the characters in his novels do, knowing the air of confidence it portrays. The air of confidence Potter’s so easily robbed him of.

He placed his order earlier in the week in hopes of proving to Potter, though he’s got nothing to prove to anybody, that he isn’t actually completely pathetic as he’d appeared on their last run-in. The bottom line is, the last time Draco had really _seen_ Potter had been one of the lowest times in Draco’s life and he wants to show Potter that he’s doing better. _Actually_ doing better. Potter had been the Auror to pick Draco up after another wizard, the one who’d busted his lip and cracked his ribs, reported a badly beaten wizard in an alleyway in the heart of muggle London. Somewhere he’d presumed to be safe. He’d been working as a tailor in a muggle suit shop at the time, unable to find work in the wizarding world. He’d closed up shop quite later than he normally would due to a couple of leisurely, cigar-smoking businessmen.

The fact that Potter had limped him to St. Mungos with an apparition that'd made Draco vomit as soon as they'd landed had not been what had humiliated Draco the most. It was that Draco, after a year of being so careful, after being as kind as he could, after writing apologies so long his hands were blistered from the quill, it still wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He would never be enough. He'd known that deep down after the war. But he'd let himself forget and let his guard down. An investigation into Draco's attack hadn't even taken place. Draco hadn't needed another hint to get the message.

Draco wanted to prove to Potter that he was okay, even if he was living full time on the outskirts of London as a muggle author. Even though  _he_ wasn’t the one delivering the post in muggle neighborhoods.

“He’s so soft,” Potter smiles, bending forwards to pet the purring cat. Draco notices that his hat is missing and looks down to see if the man even has gloves on in the nipping weather. He doesn’t. Potter doesn’t even have a proper jacket on. Only the long sleeves of his uniform cover his arms. _Idiot_ , Draco thinks, _but an opportunity_.

Draco takes the package from Potter’s hand so that both are free. Potter immediately rubs both hands into the long fur of Waylon’s back and Draco chuckles politely. “He likes you,” he smiles. Potter looks up and returns Draco smile warmly as if he’s forgotten all the horrible things Draco’s done, as if he doesn’t even _remember_ _who Draco is_.

Or perhaps Draco’s made a terrible mistake and this isn’t actually Potter. Well, he certainly can’t just ask “Are you Potter, Potter?” can he? He doesn’t want to seem completely barmy. Potter interrupts before he can wrestle a decision from his mind.

"I like you too, er, well I don't know your name do I?" he stutters, looking at Waylon, and actually scratches his head. Draco can see the exact moment Potter realizes he's spoken before thinking.

“Waylon,” Draco provides, using this moment to look at Potter again, hard this time. Messy hair is there, browned skin, thick eyebrows, a slightly confused yet carefree expression worrying his face, thin lips, broad shoulders, green orbs. Yes, everything is there. Except - Draco bends down slightly and tries not to be too obvious as he peers up from Potter through his eyelashes. _The scar_. It hides dubiously behind a stray curl that dances over Potter's forehead. This man is clearly Harry Potter or polyjuiced.

“What a pretty name you’ve got,” Harry coos and Draco just about loses his mind because it’s just so _not on_. How is it that Potter hasn’t even acknowledged, been so utterly oblivious, to Draco and is now standing on his porch delivering his useless second lamp, petting his cat, and complementing its name.

“Would you like to come in?” Draco blurts, desperate to ask the questions swirling in his head he’s been raised to politely ignore. “Tea’s on.”

Potter is taken aback. Draco sees right away confusion etch itself into Potter's features, his eyes growing comically wide. If this wasn't so absurd Draco might laugh and then hex his own mouth shut for lack of control over it. Potter stands back up straight now to gaze at Draco levelly. Draco supposes it isn't every day that homeowners on Potter's mail route ask him in.

In fact, Draco’s not really sure why _he’s_ asked Potter into his private space besides the incessant need to know just what the hell is going on with Potter and why on earth he’s even delivering packages on Draco’s street. And it is only polite to interrogate a fellow bloke when his bollocks aren’t turning into ice chandeliers in his pants.

Something flashes in Potter’s eyes but is gone before Draco can quite catch it. Then he’s speaking again. “I have a route to get back-”

“Of course, forgive-”

“But that is really nice-”

“It was highly inappropriate of me-”

“No, I’m on a tight schedule-”

“You just don’t have the proper clothes-”

Potter stops. “What?”

Draco’s cheeks flame momentarily before he pulls himself together and gestures to Potter’s clothes before he turns his nose up slightly. “Well, it’s hardly the middle of summer and you’ve got no coat,” he points out. When Potter narrows his eyebrows at him Draco tries again, lowering his chin so that he doesn’t look like _such_ a pompous arrogant git. “I thought you might be a bit cold.”

“You thought I…” Potter begins and if Draco has to hear Potter repeat the mortifying explanation again he thinks he might hurl.

“Never the matter,” Draco attempts to smooth himself. He draws his tone so that it is one of complete indifference and conceals the utter embarrassment that he’s feeling because _of_ _course_ Potters got a route because he’s _working_. "I'm sure I'll be in need of something else delivered. Perhaps then." And with that, Draco scoops Waylon up as he meows loudly in irritation, digging his nails painfully into Draco's shoulder where he's been slung and turns on his heels so fast his head spins. He slams the door behind him and leans against it breathing heavily. He looks a mess really. He's got tea sloshed over his right hand - dripping - where he spun too quickly, a package clutched to his hip, an and angry cat mewling unhappily atop his shoulder. His breaths come out in annoyed huffs at his own brashness.

He remains against his heavy oak door for a long while and bathes in embarrassment, repeating the conversation. Several long minutes pass before Draco groans in frustration and looks at Waylon who’s dove from Draco’s shoulder to his feet.

“Yes, you don’t have to tell me,” the blond says. “I know I’m an idiot.”

Waylon chirrups in what he can only assume is agreement.

Draco is startled by the protesting heave of an engine starting up just outside his house. Daring to peek out the curtains of his foyer he sees Potter’s delivery truck winding once again down his street before coming to the halting realization that: Potter was there the whole time.

_Third time's the charm, they say. Whilst he lacks not in charm he only hopes he can be enticing enough to steal the attention of a man who’s overlooked him for so long._

Two weeks pass before Draco orders his next lamp. But it isn’t until that afternoon that his doorbell rings.

“You’ve gotten quite a lot of packages lately,” Potter greets with a, _Merlin_ , teasing smile when Draco answers the door.

“Going through my mail are we?” Draco raises an eyebrow. Potter doesn’t need to know about that Draco’s already cleared away space in his spare bedroom to make room for his new lamp. Right next to the second one that’s still in its box. Right next to Draco’s brain because he’s clearly misplaced it the way Potter laughs at his snipe. “On the contrary, I can hardly believe you find three packages excessive?”

Potter considers this and Draco almost misses the way Potter's green eyes move over his body. He pats himself on the back for his choice in attire. Form-fitting brown trousers coupled with a cashmere sweater. He's left the top button undone to expose the dip in his collarbone. The brown tones of his clothing make the glittering blue and yellow flecks in his grey eyes stand out and Draco knows this. Apparently so does Potter, who's now looking at his face as if seeing it for the first time.

Draco doesn’t know what he, Draco, is playing at but it seems to be working. He just needs to butter Potter up a bit, tease him a little, soften his edges and then he’s going to fucking _pounce_ and finally get some answers.

"No," Potter allows. "However, three within two months, when you've never ordered anything prior, seems - suspicious."

 _Of course_ , Draco thinks. Potter, an Auror, has been sent to spy on him. That is the only reason Potter’s been driving up and down Draco’s street. He’s trying to get dirt on him. Well, there isn’t any dirt to be gotten and suddenly Draco feels a bit led on.

“Is this an investigation then?” Draco bites coldly and moves towards his door.

Potter’s eyes widen then narrow at him. “No!” His hands come up as if to halt Draco’s assumptions physically. “It was a joke. Just a joke.”

“Ah,” Draco hums and feels the air go a bit awkward and stiff around them. “It wasn’t very funny,” he says because he can. He wants to fuck with his head, make Potter squirm, for embarrassing him. Potter’s always been so good at fucking with Draco.

Potter shuffles and his eyes shift to the package he's holding on to his hip. Draco notices the man has again forgotten to bundle himself up properly. He wonders if Potter is using warming charms.

“I’m sorry if I made you upset.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

Draco's front porch is so quiet and the space between them seems so small and cozy yet so charged and distant. They are mere feet away from each other but it feels like miles. Like it's always been. He takes a small comfort in that. At least if Potter was going to pretend he didn't know Draco and their very rich past _didn’t_ happen he couldn’t deny the way their current encounter has settled them gently back into the throes of their long written incompatibility. They just can’t get on. They just can’t.

He steps forward slowly so that he doesn’t provoke Potter and extends a hand for his third lamp. “Best have that.”

“Right,” the other man concedes. He meets the blond in the middle and pushes the package into Draco’s waiting arms before stepping back. A hand smaller but broader than Draco’s own sweeps Potter’s curls from his forehead in haste giving a small glimpse of his faded scar. It makes Draco’s stomach twist in guilt for being so snarky with the man. “Where’s your cat, Waylon, was it?”

This surprises Draco and he’s sure his own eyes are wide now. “He’s just inside,” he motions halfheartedly towards the door.

“So, I’m coming in then?” A smile curves charmingly at the corner of Potter’s lips as he asks like he knows already he’s throwing Draco for a loop.

This is the part where Draco smooths everything over with his mask of calm and collectivism and replies with something witty. “Oh.”

“Tea?”

“It’s my bloody house!”

Potter really laughs then, deep and warm, his head tilting back as he leans into it. “Best put the kettle on then.”

So the kettle goes on and somehow Draco has prodded and poked just enough to get Potter into his living room. The specy man sits on Draco's leather loveseat as he owns it and Draco can't help but admire and wretch a bit at how quickly he's settled in. He almost looks like he belongs.

Draco is thankful that his manuscripts hide in his office because he's just realized that he hasn't decided just how much he wants to share with Potter. See, in his head, he'd never thought he'd get quite this far. But now that the kettle is just about to squeal Draco feels as though he's about to as well just out of his own sheer idiocy. Really, did he expect to pry information from Potter without sharing a bit of his own?

So Draco begins as politely as he can. “How long have you been a postman?”

Potter’s eyes roam around Draco’s living room as he answers the question and somehow Draco isn’t quite convinced that this isn’t an investigation. “Few years, two or three? You?”

“I’m not a postman,” Draco smirks because he’s an arse, that’s why.

Green eyes roll dramatically before, “You know what I mean.”

Draco thinks Potter is purposefully not saying his name because he was half expecting _Malfoy_ to follow but it doesn’t. “I write.”

“Write what?”

"Books," Draco says cooly. The kettle finally does squeal then and Draco is saved from elaboration to prepare their hot drinks. He makes Potter's tea the way he'd seen Potter make it at Hogwarts many years ago. A splash of milk and just enough sugar to rot one's teeth out. Whoever thought all his years of watching, envying, the man from afar would pay off?

When the raven-haired man receives his tea from Draco he slurps it lewdly before letting out a contented groan. "I haven't had a cuppa this good in years."

Pleased by Potter’s excitement over a mere mug of tea, Draco smiles. “Oh?”

If the blond squints a bit it looks like Potter’s smirking. “Yeah, not since school.”

It is in this moment Draco knows he’s being baited. Potter stares at him intently as if he’s daring Draco to ask the question that’s threatening to escape his lips. Of course in a normal conversation, this would be the part that Draco continued their small talk with ‘which school did you attend?’ but now, faced with the opportunity to get some answers, he finds his lips cemented shut. Because if Draco asks then this facade is all over. The rouse is up and Draco will be Draco again and Potter with be Potter. And Draco isn’t quite ready for that. Part of him feels like he’s being given a second chance impression on Potter and he absolutely cannot budge it up this time.

So instead Draco says, “Well, I’m happy to treat you to a proper cup, then.”

The slight frown is wiped from Potter's face when Waylon bounces onto his lap and he has to raise his teacup in the air to keep it from spilling over. "Watch that, or you'll end up wearing English breakfast," he coos to the cat.

“An ungodly amount of tea has been spilt upon this floor,” Draco admits, not that one could ever tell.

"You'd never guess. The carpet is spotless, like magic," Potter laughs when Waylon begins kneading his thigh. Draco pauses mid-sip just as a small piece of the Potter puzzle nuzzles itself into place. He hums in response because apparently, they're going to continue this waltz without either of them saying what they really mean. "So how long have you lived here?" Potter gestures around Draco's living room with his khaki-clad arms and teacup.

“Few years, two or three?” Draco echos Potter’s exact answer from earlier boldly earning a sidelong glance from the other man. He’s just taken an unforeseen step in their dance.

The tension in the air grows too thick and Draco can almost see Potter trying to string together a proper response. “You’re very vague,” he settles with a sigh.

The tea isn’t as appealing on Draco’s caught tongue. He’d been bold but he didn’t expect Potter to be so outright about it in return. “And you’re quite interested,” Draco reminds.

"Fine," Potter amends, suddenly impassive and inscrutable. Then, to Draco's surprise, he stands and dislodges Draco's cat. "I didn't mean to pry."

He knows his eyes are about as wide as dinner plates when he sputters, “You’re leaving?”

He feels as if they’re just getting started. His palms are sweaty and his heart is beating fast because this is absolutely _not_ the Potter he remembered and he doesn’t know if he can take it. He knows without a shadow of a doubt the old Potter would never be able to resist a blatant challenge from Draco and now he’s just leaving?

Potter sets his teacup down on the coffee table next to the loveseat. "I have to finish my route but the tea was lovely," he grins softly before adding, "And the company."

Draco would’ve likely fallen over if Potter hadn’t been speaking to a purring Waylon who winds around his ankles.

They walk to the door slowly. Potter's still in his uniform, of course, reminding Draco that they both have a job to get back to. Draco's job does not include being a sleuth, unfortunately. The khaki material is as thin as ever but covers Potter's browned skin all the same. He seems unbothered by the gust of cold air that wafts in when Draco opens the oak door. Waylon meows in protest at the fleeting visitor.

“Don’t worry, you,” Potter bends down to scruff the fur around Waylon’s neck. “If your dad here keeps his ordering up I suspect you’ll be seeing me again.” Waylon purrs and purrs and purrs. “Hopefully he’s gotten you plenty of nice treats.”

Something twists funnily in Draco’s chest at Potter’s words and he’s smiling before he actually realizes. The whole thing is oddly domestic.

“Until next time?” Draco asks when Potter steps over the threshold.

“Until next delivery,” Potter laughs with a nod.

Potter turns and steps down the front porch while Draco watches, his chest suddenly clenched tight. It doesn’t seem right having to wait and _pretend_. Draco’s so fucking tired of waiting and pretending. Right now he just wants, and that’s the only thing holding him to the spot right now, watching Potter’s hand grip the handle to his truck.

“Wait,” Draco blurts into the quiet night. A soft breeze ruffles Potter’s hair when he turns. He raises an eyebrow. “Have dinner with me.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Potter says, his tone gentle in a way that makes Draco feel he’s being let down easy.

“We can talk then, properly.” The desperateness in Draco’s voice makes him wince. But hasn’t he always begged for Potter’s attention?

Potter sighs and gives Draco a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay.”

_Dressed with his heart on his sleeve he unravels in ways he’s never done before, opening to the man before him with the surprise and ease of an unforeseen kiss._

The next time Potter is over Draco hurriedly deposits his fourth lamp in his spare bedroom and trampolines back into the kitchen before his noodles boil over. The doorbell rang just as Draco had cracked the uncooked strands, sending odd bits of pasta all over his countertop.

Potter eyes the stove warily with a look of disbelief and amusement as Draco stirs and sniffs and sifts and spoons. Draco hasn’t said as much as a rushed greeting to Potter before whisking his lamp away. That’s because his nerves are doing a funny little thing where they just sit in his throat and threaten to choke him every other sentence. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, perhaps he isn’t, and that’s why he’s bent over his stove making Potter dinner.

He's not sure what's ensnared his attention with Potter but something about it feels incredibly familiar and it's almost like he's coming home. Except for this time he doesn't want to punch Potter, he just has the inexplicable urge to be near the man and figure out this perfect conundrum. And seemingly so, making dinner is the best strategy to be in Potter's presence just a bit longer.

"Forgive me," Potter smiles when he catches a whiff of alfredo sauce just as Draco lifts the lid of the saucer to give it a stir. Steam seeps out and wafts around his small but smart kitchen. "I would have brought wine but I can't really have that on the truck without looking like an alcoholic."

Mustering up as much bravery as he can, which shouldn’t be that difficult considering he’s a grown fucking man, he lifts a shoulder before turning his chin towards Potter. “You’ll just have to help me finish this then,” he says casually. “To make up for your utter uncouth and disrespect towards alcoholics everywhere.”

Potter laughs at this before stepping over to Draco’s sink, rolling his khaki sleeves, and washes his hands. “What do you need, chef?”

Draco snorts. "Chop the chicken in that pan just there," he points with his wooden spoon. Potter does as he's told, nicking a utensil from Draco's rack without asking. He sets to work, strong hands looking suddenly delicate and careful as they cut into the savory chicken.

“So,” Potter begins with an air of nonchalance. “First tea, now dinner? Someone might think you’re a man after my heart.” He stops slicing to look sideways at Draco with a thick black eyebrow raised, damn him. He shakes his head, dislodging the curls obscuring his vision just to have them flop back down. “Or you’re just exceptionally hospitable to your postmen.”

Draco watches Potter’s eyebrows quirk up at him again waiting for an answer. “Garlic cloves. Second cabinet to your left. Third shelf,” he orders. “There’s a step-ladder in the pantry if you need it to reach.”

Potter scowls.

They take their dinner in the dining room where Draco’s sat at the head and Potter claims the seat adjacent. Plates are filled and wine glasses are emptied as Waylon takes turns winding through and around their legs.

“This is great,” Potter smiles, twisting his fork to gather more noodles. “You’re an excellent cook.”

“Thank you.” Draco sips his wine and places his hand on the table so their fingers brush. Potter stares at his hand for a long moment, his eyes going a bit wide before they meet Draco’s again. “Four times you’ve been to my house now. I had to express my appreciation for all your hard work in some way.” He removes his hand to pick up his fork again. The contact was minimal and fleeting, but there nevertheless.

A beat passes between them and Potter’s visibly flustered, perceivably caught off guard by Draco. After a minute Potter rights himself. “So?” The man looks as though he’s waiting to ask Draco why exactly it is that he’s been invited to Draco’s house for dinner but he also looks as though he knows the answer already.

Draco swallows but nods, pushing his plate further away from him. “Go on then.”

“Anything off limits?” Potter asks. “Anything we can’t talk about?”

Draco racks his brain for a moment. The problem is the number of unsafe topics they could discuss while delving back into their offensive past far outweigh the safe topics. Potter is unsafe and everything about him that is related to Draco's life is absolutely unsafe.

“Perhaps adolescence?” Potter frowns briefly but nods anyway. That effectively closes off a large chunk of crossover in their lives. But Draco’s suddenly aware that he doesn’t really care to discuss the past too much; he likes who he is now far better. “And perhaps we should take this to the drawing room?”

Potter wastes no time in making himself comfortable on Draco's large sofa. He's sat at one end, leaning against the armrest.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Potter raises a hand when Draco goes to say he’s already answered that question. “And just saying ‘write books’ doesn’t count.”

“I write romance novels,” Draco concedes and continues when Potter’s eyebrows raise and disappear behind his fringe. “I never saw myself as a writer growing up but after I found myself a rather difficult time fitting in elsewhere I decided to give it a go. Plus, the list of things I _didn’t_ want to do was much longer than the list of things I did. It started out as an escape, a stress reliever if you will. I rather enjoy it."

Seemly satisfied with his answer, Potter shifts sideways on the sofa where he’s sat next to Draco and nods. “How many novels have you written?”

“Two. I am in the middle of the third now.”

“So is it a series then or three different plots completely?”

"I suppose you could call it a series," Draco nods. "It's become more than I expected if I'm honest. It started out as a simple story I wanted to tell and quickly became an all-consuming project. Do you like to read?"

"I might be interested," Potter puts a finger to his lips and the right corner lifts minutely. "Though I've never been good at reading. I enjoy it sometimes but prefer something to the point. Yours must be a long love story. Three books you said?"

“Indeed.” Draco regards Potter with curious eyes, not quite able to picture him reading leisurely. “Sometimes it just takes people a while to find each other.”

The next silence that passes between them is tangible and causes Draco’s stomach to twist inside him.

"You don't seem like the type to write romance," Potter says finally after a drawn-out breath.

“And you presume to know what type I am, do you?” Draco drawls.

“No,” he admits. “It’s just your suave when I delivered your first package didn’t scream new age romantic to me. But after being wined and dined tonight, I’d consider myself pleasantly surprised.”

Its Draco’s turn to blush now, and he does behind the wine glass he lifts to his lips. “That’s me told, then.” Potter’s laugh rings out loudly now and bounces obnoxiously off of Draco’s walls. He finds himself smiling at the man’s shaking shoulders and aims to make Potter laugh again sometime soon. Once Potter’s regained a shred of his dignity Draco asks his own question. “Have you always been a postman?”

Potter settles back into the cushions now. He stares contemplatively at Draco for a long moment and something gives. Draco isn’t sure what until Potter speaks again.“No actually, I used to be an Auror. Mostly low profile undercover work.” Something passes over Potter’s face and Draco watches his whole body tense into a grimace. “I quit after two years.”

Draco finds that he can relax a little now that he and Potter aren’t participating in this strange waltz of divulging pertinent information whilst ignoring the erumpent in the room.

 He sits forward a little and angles his body toward the other man. “Why’d you quit?”

“Too much bigotry.”

Draco asks the question he already knows the answer to. “In the Ministry?”

“Especially in the Ministry. Too many people unwilling to move on, unwilling to forgive.” Potter sighs. “Justice doesn’t play favorites. At least not for me.”

Draco can't hold in the small snort that escapes his lips - maybe it's the wine because that sounds so much like something Potter would say and it's the first thing he's said that actually sounds like the Potter that Draco knew so well. The familiarity it brings is almost comforting.

Potter is looking at him so oddly he wonders if he’s got a red mustache on his face from the wine. Potter’s eyes are narrowed slightly as if squinting at Draco will make things clearer somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Draco puts a hand over his mouth to hide his lingering smile. “That wasn’t funny. Just so heroic. And profound. Mind if I use it in a story?”

Potter rolls his eyes and stands. “Alright, you wanker, you’ve had your fun.” The grin on Potter’s face is warm and genuine, like joking around with Draco comes as natural as breathing. “I best get going,” he says, regret clear in his voice. “Early route in the morning. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. I feel like I barely got to ask you anything.” He frowns at his bulky boots.

Draco stands too, facing Potter. “I’ll be sure to order something soon if that’s what it takes to see you again,” he pauses and has the sense to add, “to quench your thirst for knowledge of me of course.” He’s being a bit clingy but for Merlin’s sake, this, being with Potter feels _so_ nice and Draco hasn’t had someone enjoy being in his company for so long. He doesn’t want this to be the last time Potter is in his house, drinking his wine, eating his food.

“How about I just owl you?”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Draco exhales. “I’m running out of space for desk lamps.”

Potter laughs loud and deep causing a grin to tug at Draco’s own lips.

“You think I’m joking.”

Potter extends his calloused palm for the second time in as many weeks for Draco to take.

The world feels like it's tipped on its side ever so slightly, just enough for Draco to notice the shift, before it rights itself. And when it does it's like he's seeing Potter for the very first time. Blazing green eyes that look like pools, light dusting of freckles over his cheeks and nose, a faint scar just at his cupid's bow, hair that curls wildly around his face, framing it like a black halo. Draco doesn't know what passes between them then but it's something Draco will never forget.

The other man looks at Draco as if he's all he sees at that moment and Draco's heart stutters in his chest. As if Draco is special, important, as if he cares. His eyes burn into Draco with earnest. "Thank you for dinner and a wonderful night. It was really nice talking to you."

Draco extends his own hand. He grips Potter’s hand gently in his own, warm and strong. “Likewise.”

Potter’s blushing when he takes his hand back and begins walking down Draco’s front steps. On the last step, he turns back to regard Draco with one last look before hoisting himself into his truck and careening down the dark street.


	2. Part Two

_He waits alone while butterflies and nerves make friends in his stomach. His fingers shake but with excitement of what he knows is to come._

Draco had been pacing. If he’s being honest, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd worn a rut in his floor.

He thinks back to the short owl he’d sent Potter earlier in the day asking if he’d join him for tea again. Draco hadn’t lasted all of three days before he’d broken down and penned a letter. He couldn’t get Potter out of his head, much to his dismay. It was like nothing had changed between them in years since Hogwarts.

It was an odd thing, summoning an owl for the first time in years. What was even odder was how he hadn’t quite managed to forget just how to pet the silly birds to keep from losing a finger. Sending it after Harry Potter was another ordeal entirely.

Draco’s up before he even hears the knock this time, so when it comes it takes him no time to swing the door open and reveal a red nosed Potter on his step.

“Afternoon,” he greets quickly, ushering the man in out of the cold.

“Hello,” Potter replies. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” Draco smiles with a glance over his shoulder. Potter is following him closely, dressed in jeans with a hole ripped clean in one knee and fuzzy wool sweater. “And you? I see you’ve decided to dress properly.”

“Oh, come off it.” The brown-skinned man rolls his eyes at Draco as he removes his matching scarf and gloves. Draco can’t seem to wipe the smile off of his face as he watches Potter make himself at home. “I thought you might want to see me in something else besides my uniform.” His tone is playful with a tiny uptick at the end as if he’s asking Draco.

Draco’s face flames and he decides to skip addressing that comment altogether. “No work today then?”

Potter’s curls dance across the man’s forehead as he shakes his head. “I was able to finish my route up early so I could visit properly this time.”

They sit quietly in Draco’s living room while Waylon sits patiently by the fireplace, yellow eyes flicking back and forth between them. The blond takes a deep breath and spits out what he’s been gnawing on all morning before he loses his nerve. “I thought we might go out today?” He winces at the lack of confidence in his voice but steels himself anyway.

Potter lifts his eyes to meet Draco’s in what feels like slow motion. “Go out?” he says tentatively. “Where?”

Suddenly Draco wonders why he ever thought Potter would want to go somewhere with him. This little friendship, if he could even call it that, was only just blooming but it flowered in such a way that kept Draco awake at night, needing to know and see _more_ of the other man. It’s just, well they hadn’t gotten to know each other very much had they? And Potter was always whisked back to work before Draco could even offer him biscuits for his tea like a proper host. Taking Potter out would surely secure Draco a more sturdy timeframe with the delivery truck not right outside his door waiting for Potter to make his escape.

“There is a coffee shop just down the street,” Draco begins coolly like he _isn’t_ coiling in on himself. “It would only take a few minutes for us to walk there.”

“I’m sorry, I just… I just thought-“ Potter eyes him, emotions passing over his face too fast for Draco to read, before getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good idea.”

And Draco is flummoxed because that’s what Potter said to him when they first started seeing each other because Potter is edging towards the door because he looks like Draco’s just suggested putting him on display atop Gringotts—

That’s when it clicks.

The worry in Potter’s eyes suddenly seems to make all of the sense in the world and if Draco hadn’t been so busy ordering lamps and scheming up ways to get his postman in his house he’d realized the obvious. In fact, if he’d been thinking clearly, he’d notice that it wasn’t entirely logical for Potter to be a fucking postman in the first place when his life had seemed so perfectly and utterly in order the last time Draco had seen him years ago. Draco isn’t the only one hiding from the wizarding world.

“Wait,” Draco stands too. He grabs Potter’s arm.

He’s surprised when Potter pulls it back rather roughly. Green eyes are large and filling with panic with each second that passes between them. “I can’t. I can’t go back. I’m sorry but-“

“Hey,” Draco says calmly, looking straight into Potter’s eyes. But Potter’s gaze drops just as quickly as caught and flicks nervously around the room. “Listen, I didn’t realize-“

“I need to leave,” Potter says, backing up against Draco’s door like the blond has put him there. “You have to let me go. I’ll-”

An urge to stop whatever is happening to Potter right this second floods Draco with an incessant _need_ . “Look at me,” he says as softly as he can manage so that he doesn’t frighten Potter any further. He lifts his hands to grip Potter’s neck, forcing the man to look him square in the eye. Potter has to tilt his chin just so. “You are free to leave whenever, and I mean _whenever_ , you want.” He tells the man. “I apologize if I upset you. I should have explained better.”

Potter remains stiff, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

Draco nods. “The place I was talking about is non-magic. Nobody will recognize you. Or me.”

And then it’s over.

Just as quickly as the panic attack took a threateningly close hold on Potter, it is avoided and Potter is left with his back pressed firmly to Draco’s oak door, large, cool hands around his neck.

“I,” Potter begins, gaze shifting nervously from Draco to the floor and back up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Embarrassment marks Potter with a pretty rose blush across his cheeks and Draco’s heart stutters in his chest. “You don’t have to apologize to me. I get it.” And Draco does. He gets it so much so that Draco believes this is the closest he and Potter will ever come to being one and the same on any matter. This is one thing he’d never argue with the green-eyed wizard about because he too values his freedom from the wizarding world like it’s his prized possession. He loves his life, his quaint little home, his drowsy neighborhood, his career, his cat. “I understand the need for a certain level of privacy,” he reassures Potter and drops his hold on the man’s neck. “I’m not too keen to reopen the door to that world either.”

Potter visibly relaxes, but there is still something hidden in his face. Draco takes a step back. The tension in the air seeps out slowly along the edges.

“What is it?”

Potter swallows. His eyes cast down to his booted feet. The green-eyed man takes a deep breath and Draco’s sure he’s going to ask to leave again before he says, “Never the matter. I would really like to see this coffee shop.”

“Really?” A genuine grin breaks out across Draco’s face, so sudden it threatens to split his face in half. “That’s… fantastic. That’s really great,” he says because he expected Potter to be so shaken from the last few moment’s events that he’d change his mind. “You’re sure?” he asks just in case.

But Potter doesn’t change his mind at all. Instead, he laughs his laugh, warm and deep, that Draco’s grown quite fond of and looks him straight in the eye with so much sincerity that for a moment Draco’s caught. “Thank you,” he says, before extending an arm to loop with Draco’s.

“Whatever for?”

“Understanding.”

The walk to the coffee shop is somber and quiet. Draco feels perfectly comfortable, however, without the incessant need to fill the silence with meaningless chat. Potter walks closely to his side. Draco casually sneaks glances to Potter’s profile and every time sees Potter’s green eyes cutting sideways to peak at him too. The third time draws a laugh from Draco and a sly grin from Potter.

“No robes today?” Potter raises an eyebrow at Draco’s plush sweater and dark jeans.

“I think the goal generally is to fit in,” Draco says as he bumps into Potter’s shoulder with his own and gestures them to the counter.

“This is perfect,” Potter smiles softly from the small table for two they’d requested. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Draco studies Potter and takes in the way he sniffs the fragrant beverage before taking a slow drink. He finds that dainty china contrasts wonderfully with Potter’s masculine, worn hands. He looks at his own hands, large but slim. Nimble and precise.

“Thank you for coming.” Draco sets his fresh mug down. “I enjoy the company.”

“Do you have much?” Potter asks. “Company, I mean.”

Draco shakes his head. His friends had long since stopped coming to visit once they’d realized just how serious Draco was when he’d said he was quite finished with wizarding London. He suspects they thought it was just a phase. His parents, well, his mother, certainly had. If he’s being honest, and he is, he’s surprised really at how much he doesn’t miss the wizarding world. But what’s more pressing is Potter’s absence from it.

Retrospectively, Draco had every good reason to leave. While it could look like cowardice, not wanting to face the consequences for his actions – some of them unforgivable; Draco felt as though he couldn't possibly be able to _do better_ if he was met with reminders of his past at every turn. He had to move on. The fact was there were no opportunities left for Draco there. Maybe even rightfully so. The exact opposite was true for Potter. The last time Draco had seen him he seemed to be just at the cusp of his prime. Now, well Draco wasn’t quite sure how that translated into the Muggle post service.

“And you?” Draco hopes he comes across as polite instead of prying as he eyes Potter over his mug.

“Just the usual suspects.” He sets his cup down. “You can understand the difficulty it is to maintain relationships when your worlds are so different.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Forgive me but,” Draco takes a deep breath and asks the question he’s been dying to ask for months. “Why be different? Why live in a separate world when everything you've known is left behind?”

“There’s always more to know,” he pauses. “I haven’t really left it behind, anyway,” Potter says, his eyes somewhere to the right of Draco’s head. “At least not where it’s important. I guess I wanted more, but not of what they had to offer. Part of me felt like staying where I was and following the path everyone thought I would was the exact opposite of creating more for myself.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I was so _sick_ of doing what I was supposed to do according to everyone else.”

Something about the fierce bitterness in Potter’s eyes resonates so deeply with Draco he struck speechless for a moment. It isn’t because what Potter is saying is particularly profound, just that Draco didn’t realize how wrong he was and had been about the Golden Boy his whole life. It took him years to learn how to not assume and to instead ask questions. He can’t help but wonder what else is yet to be debunked.

He's so perplexed he can’t help it when he stammers, “I just thought…” He thinks long and hard about whether he wants to lower the walls that keep Potter and him in this safe and familiar bubble where they don’t talk about how connected and ugly their pasts are. He thinks part of him would like to keep things as vanilla and unrealistically benign as he can. But who is he kidding really? Everything between them was always fueled with spark, power, intensity. There’s no way either of them could keep this up and be truly satisfied.

“Just thought what?” Potter jolts him back to reality.

“I just thought that maybe that’s what you wanted,” Draco admits. “I used to think that’s what I wanted. The attention, the fame, the riches, the fans. It’s easy to forget the responsibility, the loathing, the lack of privacy, the loneliness when you’re on the outside looking in.”

“Watching it is completely different than living it,” Potter agrees. “What about you? Why leave?”

“Would you believe me if I said my answer was the exact same?” The corner of Potter’s mouth ticks up a bit so Draco continues. “Didn’t think so,” his grimace is bittersweet. “I don’t think there was much left for me there. Not that I deserved to be granted forgiveness.” He pauses. “Believe me when I say that I know the things I did were atrocious and cowardly. I am so incredibly sorry and ashamed of who I was. But even my deepest apologies couldn’t atone or wager a better life for me. So, here I am. Hoping to make something of the rest of what’s left.”

At some point, Draco had found himself unable to hold Potter’s gaze. When he looks up the man’s eyes are so bright yet conflicted. His expression is unreadable. “I don’t know what to say.”

“And you don’t have to,” Draco assures him. “Sometimes saying nothing at all says more than a million misplaced and half-meant words.”

Potter’s gaze is so intense and the space between them so charged. He leans forward until his elbows are pressed against the table. “You’re so different,” he whispers in what sounds like amazement.

Draco mimics his movements, resting against the table and invading Potters personal space as he leans in close. “Hopefully I can keep proving that to you,” a soft smile tugs at his lips.

_They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. But could it be that the deepest desires of the heart are quenched with the familiarity of a habit shared with the one whom your heart beats for? Comfort is found in what he knows._

The word ‘surprised’ just doesn’t quite express the way Draco feels when he and Potter settle into their routine. In fact, Draco doesn’t know if there _is_ a word to describe how he feels and it’s his _job_ to describe things in a somewhat articulate manner. The thing is, he’s so taken off guard that even though he knows it’s coming, the soft knock at his door every Wednesday afternoon still sets his heart at a frantic pace and causes his fingers to fumble and shake.

Nevertheless, Draco always makes Potter’s tea just the way he likes it and Potter always compliments him for it, telling him that nobody makes tea like Draco. Then the blonde takes his seat opposite of Potter on the sofa and listens to Potter talk about all the interesting things that happened on his mail route while he coaxes a purring Waylon. He describes the precise way to shove letters through the slot, quickly and quietly, so that Mrs. Whitworth’s yippy dog doesn’t bark and rip them to shreds. Draco listens intently while Potter explains how the mail truck has to be turned exactly a half second before the actual turn in the road if you don’t want to take out a mailbox. He even divulges that his favorite part of being a postman is that his job lets him do something hands-on and different every day because he just can’t imagine spending his life wasting away in a cubicle and being told what to do.

Every minute that Draco spends with Potter feels like another nail in the coffin because Draco is absolutely _gone_ for Potter.

He thinks he realized it when he caught himself smiling while telling Potter how the love interest in his books was usually based on an utter prat he went to school with who was devilishly handsome but unfortunately oblivious. Or perhaps when Potter reached out and grabbed Draco’s forearm, where sis dark mark rested just below because he was too close to the pan he was cooking with and told him to be careful. Maybe it was when Draco made a roast and Potter wiped up every bit of gravy with his bread before telling Draco he could get used to coming home to this every day.

Whatever moment it was doesn’t matter anyway because now, all that matters to Draco is Wednesday’s with his Postman.

He tells himself that pursuing anything further with the risk of ending their friendship is just something he’s not willing to do. Even when his thoughts slip to freckles, messy hair, and a pert arse as he pulls himself off. Even when he imagines a warm body beside him before drifting into a restless sleep. Even when the home Draco has made for himself starts to feel large and lonely.

 _A just like that, his whole heart is taken and replaced and shifted and changed until it fits like a perfect puzzle piece into strong, calloused hands. Walking into_ his _world causes him to forget his own._

Time passes faster than Draco would really like to admit. His deadlines are approaching at a frightening speed and his work is making progress at a snail’s pace. All of this, like on most occasions, melts away with a soft knock on his oak door. One night a week becomes two, then three, and dinner becomes whole afternoons spent with Potter.

Part of him is disappointed with his lack of effort lately. Never had he abandoned his work so willingly. Funnily enough, he can’t remember ever being so relaxed and happy in his life either. Of course, writing gives him the outlet he so desperately needs. But maybe even that isn’t a bandage large enough to cover a wound Draco didn’t even realize he had.

He shakes his head. He’s going soft, he tells himself. Because before Potter walked into his life Draco _thought_ he was fine. He thought this was enough. He can’t shake the idea that Potter’s companionship has shown him just what _enough_ could actually be.

Nevertheless, Draco is a writer first to anything else. So once looking at his calendar causes his stomach to physically ache, he pushes his jumbled thoughts and daydreaming aside. Wringing his shoulders and neck, he writes and writes and writes. Even when he knows it isn’t good he still writes because he knows if he just keeps on pushing through, eventually he will find his rhythm again. And he does. He always does.

Waylon resumes his usual spot atop Draco’s desk. Yellow eyes flick curiously after his quillstrokes.

Draco is vaguely aware of time as it passes around him. The light in his house dims and the chirp of the birds outside lessen. Then the sun returns with the birds. A dull ache in the center of his back begins to make itself known with a persistent throb that eventually creeps up his neck. Even his fingers cramp as he etches letter by letter into the parchment.

He’s approaching the end of a paragraph when he tells himself _one more_ for what feels like the millionth time now when a soft voice pierces his concentration. When he jumps he snaps his quill right in two. “Fuck.”

“Hi,” Potter repeats and Draco looks up. The other man is standing just behind him to the right, peering over his shoulder with concern. The blond knows he must be a sight for sore eyes. He can’t remember the last time he left his desk, let alone how it is Potter’s let himself in.

“Hello,” Draco croaks, his voice hoarse.

Potter’s eyes widen. “Forgive me but you look terrible.”

“Forgiven,” he attempts a laugh but winces when all that comes out is an odd little wheeze. His tongue feels like sandpaper.

“Maybe it’s time for a break?”

“What time is it?” Draco looks down at his watch and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Oh no, no, no,” he mumbles, standing too quickly. An arm reaches out to catch him when his vision goes spotty and his knees weak. His joints stiffen in protest. “Dinner, I was- What _day_ is it?”

Potter holds Draco steady. “When’s the last time you’ve had something to eat?”

Draco stumbles a bit more and tries to pull his arm free when Potter doesn’t let go. If the git would just let him go he could fix himself a glass of water and grab a potion from the cabinet. “If you’d let go,” he takes a deep breath. “I’ll just make-“

“Hey!” Potter says firmly, gripping both of Draco’s forearms now almost painfully. “You’re not making anything. You’re going to sit down and rest.”

Draco wants to tell Potter that he’s done nothing but sit for Merlin knows how long, but the ache that pulses through his body is relentless and his head is spinning with dizziness. So he lets himself be led, or dragged really, to the sofa they’ve sat on together so many times now. Draco allows Potter to set him down gently and watches as the other man walks quickly into the kitchen. He’s back moments later with a tall glass of water and a small vile.

“Found a pain reliever,” he hands it to Draco who gulps the contents of the glass down thirstily.

The relief that flows through him is instant, like a wave from the ocean that crashes over him. He feels weightless as the tension eases out of his body and his shoulders lower themselves. He polishes off the water and sets his glass down before leaning into the back of the sofa and closing his eyes.

When Draco wakes up, he immediately becomes aware of two things. The first is that he’s in a different position than he was when he fell asleep. He’s currently on his back, vaulted ceiling above him, and incredibly warm. The second is that Harry Potter is also above him, square jaw facing forward, stubble littering his chin, and deliberately not making eye contact with Draco.

Draco begins to stir but before he can properly sit up, Potter looks down at him with his thick eyebrows pulled together. “Hi.”

He takes in his surroundings. He’s currently lying halfway across his sofa and halfway across Potter, his shoulders, neck, and head resting on the other man’s lap, Waylon sprawled across the length of his own legs. The blond starts again, “Sorry. I’ll just-”

Potter grabs his arm to still his movements. “S’alright. You sort of kept falling over as you slept. I sort of let you,” he says with a shrug.

Draco does sit up this time and swivels his torso sideways to look at Potter. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he explains. “For you to see me like that, I mean. I shouldn’t have worked so long.” The thought of Potter seeing him stumble around in exhaustion sends a fresh new bloom of pain across his temple. He clutches his forehead.

“It’s okay,” Potter says. “I didn’t, _don’t_ mind, I mean.” He scratches the nape of his neck, “What I’m saying is, you can stay. Here. Like this. You’ll just make Waylon upset if you move now anyway.”

Draco regards him curiously and notes the way Potter is chewing his bottom lip. He wonders if it's a nervous tick. “On your lap?” He raises his eyebrow.

A pretty rose tinge paints itself across the high points of Potter’s cheekbones, an attractive contrast to his dark skin and green eyes. He nods, blushing further. “On my lap.”

Instead of poking fun of Potter’s embarrassment Draco clamps his mouth shut and turns so that he can lower himself back down on Potter’s lap. The warmth radiating up from Potter’s thighs is a soothing comfort to his kinked muscles and the steady rise of fall of Potter’s torso next to his ear further relaxes Draco.

“Do you do that often?”

“Do what?”

“Forget to eat,” Potter explains. “Forget to _get up_.”

“No,” Draco answers automatically, fighting back the surge of annoyance that rises in him at Potter’s fretting.

“Oh,” Potter says when Draco doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry about dinner…” Draco trails off, absently pulling his hands up to rest on his sternum. He knows that he’s being a pillock for being so distant when he knows that Potter is just concerned. He tells himself that it's a _good_ thing to be vulnerable and determinedly gives a shove to the part of his brain that rejects this display of weakness.

“You don’t need to apologize to me about that,” Potter says sternly, his thighs tensing under Draco’s head.

“What should I apologize for then?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Potter takes a deep breath before looking down at Draco. “For not taking better care of yourself. For neglecting your cat for the last day and a half. For being a stubborn arse-”

Draco huffs out a soft laugh, “Quite a long laundry list you’ve got there.” And then, “Hey!” when Potter flicks the side of his head.

“I’m serious,” Potter insists. “There’s nothing so important that you put it before your own health and happiness, trust me. I know.” Draco regards the depth of Potter’s green irises as they stare unwavering into Draco’s.

“Okay,” Draco says softly, turning his head to the side slightly to get a better look. He means it this time when he says, “I’m sorry. I’ve been… distracted lately.”

“Distracted?” Potter repeats. Draco doesn’t miss the worry in his voice.

He nods slowly, thinking of how best to word the swirling thoughts in his head. “Have you ever had this idea of how your life was supposed to go,” he begins, lacing his fingers together on his chest. “You had this plan of how everything will be. What you’d do. Who would be in it.”

Draco thinks back to his teenage years where early on, his path was so clear and set, only to be utterly _yanked_ from underneath him after one bad decision became another, then another. He’d thought at the time that was his wake up call. He’d thought that _this_ time, in _this_ life he’d created for himself that he’d got it right. It only dawns on him now that for the second time in his life, his world has been turned upside down on its head and shaken. This time, by the man he’s half fallen in love with.

“And then you realize that you were completely wrong, not only once but twice,” Draco continues all the while looking up at Potter. “You think you had it all figured out and tell yourself that all that you have is good enough and that you’re happy but then,” he sucks in a breath, his momentum ramping up with every word because he simply _can’t_ stop now. This thing is roaring inside of him with an urgent, incessant need to _get out_ . “Someone steps into your life, takes the door completely off the hinges, and makes you question if good really is good enough, if what you thought you were satisfied with even _touches_ the threshold of how happy you actually could be.”

Draco has to stop because his chest feels tight and his throat feels too narrow. His head is pounding harder than it really has any right to and he’s just spilled the entire contents of it to Potter in hopes that he’d be able to catch all the pieces.

Potter is still staring at him, green eyes glittering in the dim lighting of Draco’s living room. “And now?” He asks voice full hope that makes Draco’s heart clench.

“And now you're completely ruined because you know what it feels like for someone to walk in your life and make you want more,” Draco says, and it's probably the most honest thing he’s ever said. The truth of it sounds off clearly and without a shadow of a doubt, Draco knows he’s _ruined_.

The hand that is resting beside Draco’s head after just flicking him moments ago slowly moves. He can hear to the soft tug of denim as Potter slides it closer to Draco’s head. Potter’s still looking down at him when Draco feels the gentle slide of fingers through his hair and along his scalp. His heartbeat doubles its pace in his chest but even that can’t stop his eyes from fluttering shut as Potter moves his fingers through Draco’s strands. “Is this okay?”

“Okay,” Draco repeats because his mouth and brain can’t form a reply more complex than that. The gesture is small, of course it is, but Draco can’t stop his heart from swelling and his lips from curving into a small grin. He can’t help himself from falling deeper still. He forgets why it is he even doubted for one moment the sheer rightness he feels when he’s with Potter. He feels his whole equilibrium shift and center on Potter like he’s the only fucking thing holding him to the earth. “Can I ask you something?”

Potter nods.

“Why are you still here?” Vulnerability is thick in his voice, almost childlike, even as the small smile remains unwavered by the butterflies in his stomach. It’s so unlike him but he needs to know. He needs to know where Potter stands, how he feels about what Draco’s just said. “The truth.”

“Well, you’re my friend,” the dark-haired man rubs his chin. “Plus, when I got up to try and find you a blanket earlier I found myself in a room with a fuck ton of desk lamps in it. And if _that_ doesn’t send a message...” His chuckle is warm as it vibrates through Potter and into Draco.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Potter murmurs after a moment. Draco can hear the smile on his own lips, as well, as the words come out with a slight uptick.

Draco keeps his eyes closed when he says, “You.”

And suddenly, Potter is leaning over him. The angle is awkward and Potter’s shirt is bunching up against his cheek but he’s _leaning_ in and it feels like falling.

Every minute, day, week, and month that’s passed since Potter delivered his first package has come down to this finite moment where all Draco can see is the man in front of him willing and waiting, lips parted and breath ghosting over his chin as Potter leans forward still. He watches Potter’s eyes flutter closed. His heart is working overtime in his chest, _thud thud_ , and the butterflies in his belly feel like a bee’s nest. Their lips meet with breathtaking gentleness almost like they’re afraid to frighten the other. Its tender and unblemished. This kiss is extraordinary in that Draco doesn’t understand just how one could be satisfied yet completely discontent at the same time. It’s like Draco is starving for water and has just been given one small drink from the deepest, purest well. It isn’t enough although perfect all the same.

Just as the first ends, another begins with firm persistence that says _please_. Potter’s lips move softly against his own with enough tenderness to make his head spin. He moves his hand to cup Potter’s jaw and pull him all the closer, diminishing the last remaining space between them. He knows Potter is practically bending himself in half to reach Draco but even that doesn’t diminish the perfectness of this moment. He feels Potter’s hands come to rest at his stomach, fingers twisting into the front of his shirt, his other hand still tangled in Draco’s hair.

Draco loves this. Every fiber in his body is alive with the rush of the other man’s lips moving, caressing, nipping at his own.

Potters fingers move to grip the collar of his shirt to haul him up so he’s sitting upright on Potter’s lap, arms wrapping tightly around each other in earnest. The difference in their height gives Draco the advantage as he shifts so that he’s slowly pressing Potter into the back of the sofa, pressing his tongue gently into Potter’s mouth and tangling his fingers into those unruly curls.

Draco is so wrapped up in the taste of Potter’s mouth that it doesn’t quite register the first time he hears the faint little whisper against his lips. So he keeps kissing, taking Potter’s swollen bottom lip between his teeth.

“ _Draco_.”

His own name whispered across the wet slide of his lips as Potter kisses him makes his cock throb in his jeans and a low groan to slip from his mouth. It just, he _really_ underestimated just how sexy Potter would sound when he said his name through heavy breaths. How it would sound when Potter finally said his name. He knows Potter must be able to feel his arousal pressing against his thighs, but they way Potter returns his feverish kisses washes away any embarrassment he might feel otherwise.

“Draco,” Potter whispers again, breathier this time with a touch of heat. Draco knows, he _knows_ , what the other man wants from him.

Draco hauls him back in for another hard kiss, dipping his tongue back into Potter’s mouth. Somehow he manages to swing a leg over Potter’s thighs so that he’s straddling him. He rocks his hips hard into Potter’s, delighted at the sound Potter makes because yes, he _can_ feel a stiff cock rubbing against his own. He works a hand in between them to cup Potter’s crotch and give it a light squeeze as he presses burning kisses into Potter’s neck, his jaw.

He’s so hard he thinks, embarrassing as it is, that he could come just from this. He presses himself flush against Potter whose hands are clawing up the fabric of his shirt grabbing it by fistfuls until he’s tugging it over Draco’s head.

“Oh fuck,” Potter freezes, eyes trained on Draco’s torso. He discards Draco’s shirt onto the unused part of the sofa and lifts a finger to trace lightly over the pale zigzags that cover Draco’s chest from the waistband of his trousers to the top of his collar bones. “ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats.

Draco follows his finger movements and watches Potter’s face go from surprised to horrified in the small time it takes for him to blink. He catches the other man’s fingers and grips them firmly. “I forgave you a long time ago,” he says truthfully. “Don’t forget the curse I was aiming at you.”

The insides of Draco’s stomach are twisting because he knows that his and Potter’s reactions at this moment are crucial to everything thereafter.

“I marked you,” Potter looks up at him fervently, eyes wide. “I am so sorry.”

“Harry,” Draco says finally. The name sounds foreign on his lips but he hears Potter’s breath catch in his throat. “I forgive you.” He catches Harry Potter’s gaze and says what’s been long overdue, “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’m sorry for who I was, what I did, and for every single thing I ever did to hurt you.”

Draco’s heart plummets because he can _see_ that every word he says is drawing Potter back into reality. His blood runs cold as the emotions pass quickly over the other man’s face. First, horror, then realization, and finally, his eyebrows knit together, his mouth drops, his eyes look everywhere but Draco’s as his face finally settles on the last emotion that’s guaranteed to rip Draco’s heart out: Regret.

_Whoever said life will break you was wrong. Life doesn’t break you. Instead, the heart, so meager, so emotive, so salient, holds the power to make or break even the best of men. The heart is the silent slayer that holds for ransom with an unreachable payoff. Life, he thinks, is just the excuse._

Draco pens the last of his third novel with a trembling hand and frown on his face.

Waylon sits beside him atop his writing desk and gazes at him with big, yellow eyes. Draco reaches over to give him a scratch behind the ears. “All done, Way.” The feline trills softly in response.

He looks over at the _finished_ pile on his desk, now at least ten pages higher than it was before and deposits his somber ending atop it. He can’t remember a time in his life where he’s been so productive, except for when he’d first moved in.

Draco doesn’t hear anything for a week and if he’s honest, he’s been too busy eating his heart out in the quillstrokes of his work to notice. Kind of. He tells himself he’s just glad that he wasn’t able to get too invested in Harry before someone removed the wool from his eyes. But he knows that this is only half the truth. That’s because he knows full well he’d already been too invested when Harry fled from his house without another word exactly seven days ago. He just can’t imagine how he would feel if things did pan out the way he thought they ought to in his head then came to an inevitably spectacular end.

He tosses his quill aside and scolds himself for letting his thoughts slip back to _Potter_. To busy himself, he makes a cup of tea in the kitchen, dutifully avoiding looking at anything he doesn’t absolutely have to. It’s just, every time he so much as glances at his countertop he can see Potter chopping vegetables with a grin on his face and making side eyes at Draco. Everytime he walks past the dining table he can see Potter drinking expensive wine and looking at him like he’s the only one worth looking at. Everytime he bends down to pop open a cabinet he can see Potter crouched down petting Waylon, running his strong, calloused hands through the shiny fur.

And it hurts. It hurts _so fucking much_.

So he tries to soothe himself based on the sole fact that he had Harry. Even if it were just for a moment, he had just enough to realize that just enough was never enough.

He’s pouring milk in his cup when he hears it.

Three knocks, one two three, the third a little harder than the rest.

The milk drops from his sweat-slicked fingers, smashing to pieces as it hits the floor. His heart stutters in his chest because he knows that knock though he was doubtful he’d hear it again. Grabbing a towel from the rack, Draco dabs at his sleeve. “Just a moment,” he calls to the door, voice hoarse from disuse.

When he reaches the door, he pulls it open slowly using his lower half to keep Waylon at bay as he sticks his upper half out. There, standing on his doorstep is Harry, dressed in a hooded jumper and jeans. He’s got his hands shoved way too far into his pockets; his feet shuffle nervously, left right, left right.

“Can I help you?” Draco says cooly, surprised at the composure still present in his voice.

“May I come in?” Harry asks.

The blond steps aside leaving just enough room for Harry to enter. He squeezes through close enough for Draco to smell his aftershave, clean and woodsy, along with the faint waft of gasoline from the truck.

“Tea?” Draco asks because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do. But after that, he pretty much is at a loss. He remembers his smashed milk jug and winces. “Nevermind the tea, actually.”

Thankfully, Harry declines anyway. “I,” he looks at Draco and back to the sofa he’s stood in front of, where they were so tightly wrapped around each other days ago. Making up his mind, he sits. “I just want to talk, Draco.”

Even though the prospect of having Harry back in his home and the possibility of falling back into their routine sparks a deep thrill in him, it is masked by the small sense of self-preservation Draco has left. “I don’t know if I can,” he says quietly. It isn’t as if he’s about to cry, though he feels like he could, but he simply can’t subject himself to another letdown, well-meant as it may be.

Harry’s dark skin looks contrastingly pale as he regards Draco. “Okay,” he says softly. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Draco sits on the opposite side of the sofa, where he and Harry began all of this. “First, I wanted to apologize.”

“You don’t have t-”

Harry raises his hand to stop Draco. “Yes, I do.” He runs a hand through his unruly curls. “I was so stupid for behaving the way I did. I never should have left the way I did. I should have explained,” he sighs, voice thick when he says “I should have told you exactly where I stood. Draco, I am so _sorry_ for ever making it unclear how I feel about you.”

There is a faint ringing in his ears and Draco has to take a deep breath to bring himself back to reality.

“The truth is,” Harry continues. “Seeing your scars reminded me of everything I ran from when I left, everything I’m still running from. Draco, I looked at you and I was right back in the bathroom with you all those years ago, scared out of my mind and desperate to prove a point.”

“I didn’t know,” Draco says.

“And how could you?” Harry asks. “I never told you the truth about why I left.”

“So tell me.”

Everything goes silent as a moment of hesitation squeezes itself between them. Draco can feel the tension build up until it feels like he can touch it. “Your case,” Harry says finally. “Or lack of it.”

“What?” Draco blurts because that is absolutely the last thing he was expecting.

“Hear me out, okay?” Harry flushes. “After you were attacked, you just disappeared. I guess I thought I understood why. I mean, there was no investigation, no repercussions. To a degree, I could relate to wanting to leave and start anew. Half the time, I wanted to myself just to get away from it all. But I got curious.”

Horror is clear in Draco’s voice when he asks, “You were stalking me? Again?”

The corners of Harry’s mouth turn up momentarily as if he’s recalling a fond memory before he schools his features. “Old habits die hard,” he admits. “But it didn’t take long to find you. Draco, so proper, so collected, yet completely clueless when it comes to receipts and credit cards.” He sighs. “I know it was wrong. And I'm sorry for intruding on your life, again. But I just had to make sure you were okay." He twists his fingers together in his hands, knuckles white. "I didn't have to look hard. Sorted through a couple files here and there and... There you were. At first, I didn’t believe it was really you. I mean, you looked so _different_.  Not really like your face had changed but more so your whole demeanor had changed. But it was. You created a new life for yourself and you were happy.”

The gears turn in Draco's head. “But how on earth did that equivocate you becoming my postman?”

“I’ve been your postman for over two years now.”

“ _What?_ ” Draco nearly screeches, shaking his head in disbelief.

Harry nods. “I didn’t have a reason to come to your door until you ordered something,” he bites his lip. “It’s stupid, really, but I guess I started off as wanting to keep an eye out for you and ended up not being able to stay away from you.”

Something clenches funnily in Draco’s chest as he looks at Harry. His eyes are glittering and his hands twitch nervously as they thumb the seam of his jumper.

“So why did you leave last week?”

“I was afraid,” Harry says, extending a hand to rest on Draco’s knee. He can feel the warmth from it radiating through his trousers. "I couldn't bear seeing what I did to you and what it reminded me of. I was a coward. I am so sorry for that."

Draco wants so desperately to find some shred of anger in his body to keep himself from falling right back. But it's hopeless because the way the other man is looking at him with raw honesty and openness eradicates any other feeling from Draco’s body besides violent hope.

“And now?”

“And now I’m feeling much braver,” the corner of his mouth raises in the beautiful way it’s always done.

Draco surges forward and presses his lips to Harry’s with such force he has to use his hands to grab the sofa to keep from toppling over. He feels Harry instantly melt under his touch, muscles relaxing and tension fading from him. Hands wrap around his back and fist into the fabric of his shirt, tugging it over his head. The blond pauses, pulling back and looking Harry in the eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

The press of their mouths together is urgent this time, only pausing to remove Harry’s own shirt and reveal a toned chest. Draco lets himself be pushed down as Harry climbs on top of him and reaches for the button of his trousers. He fumbles for a minute before it finally unclasps. He pulls the material down until all that’s left is the thin fabric of his boxers. A low whine escapes Draco’s mouth as Harry mouths the bulge straining under the material. “Oh fuck.”

Harry licks a stripe up leaving a wet patch before hooking his thumbs in the waistband and tugging them down. “I’m going to suck you now.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco repeats, burying his fingers in Harry’s unruly curls as he lowers his mouth. He starts slowly, mouthing at the pink head of Draco’s cock, tongue dipping into the slit to taste the precum there. Then, just as Draco feels like it can’t get any better than this, Harry engulfs his cock completely in one enthusiastic suck, bobbing his head expertly up and down Draco’s shaft until his hips are lifting off of the sofa. “Your mouth,” he groans, the heat of Harry’s mouth sending sparks through his body. The wet, slick sounds filling the room as Harry sucks him cause his balls to draw up close to his body. This is really happening, he thinks. Harry hums around him sending vibrations from deep in his throat all the way through to Draco’s cock. He tugs Harry’s hair _hard,_ earning another loud moan around his cock.

“Harry,” Suddenly it becomes too much for Draco and if they don’t stop right this second he’s going to come. “ _Harry_ , wait.” Harry looks up at him, green eyes darkened with heat, mouth stretched wide around him. Draco has to shut his eyes for a minute to regain his composure and stave off his orgasm.

“I want to feel you,” he murmurs, letting his eyes roam down the length of Harry’s body as he says so. Harry pulls off with an obscene pop before climbing back over Draco to kiss his lips.

“What do you mean?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Draco reaches to loop his fingers through the belt loops of Harry’s jeans. Harry lifts his hip to aid him as he wiggles them down. When Draco looks down, he nearly groans aloud at the sight of Harry’s cock, straining against the thin material of his underwear. He takes a minute to try and save the image in his head before removing them. His cock is thick and dark, just like the skin on the rest of his body except for the tip that glistens a deep rosy shade with precum dripping from it.

Harry seems to get the idea rather quickly, using his elbows to brace himself on either side of Draco’s head. He lines his prick up with Draco’s, gently nudging them together. They both groan at the first contact. Draco feels fireworks set off in his body as the other man begins to rock into him, the hard lines of his body connecting deliciously with his own.

Draco palms at Harry’s arse, using the leverage to increase the pressure between them as their cocks slide together. The couch begins to squeak under them as Harry’s pace increases. He buries his face in Draco’s neck, sucking the skin there as he gets them both off. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps.

It doesn’t take long for Draco’s body to be yanked directly to the edge of his orgasm, and all it takes is for Harry to whisper Draco’s name into his neck as his pace becomes sloppy to send him over the edge. He comes in white spurts over his stomach. A deep moan vibrates through him and he clutches onto Harry as his orgasm wrecks him. The wetness of his cum further slickens the space between them and soon enough Harry’s sloppy ruts become even more so before his thighs are trembling and he’s shooting his release, groaning into Draco’s neck.

It’s a long time before Draco feels his heart slow. Harry sits up to look at Draco, eyes warm and a small smile at the corner of his mouth, before pressing their foreheads together. “You’re so beautiful.”

Draco feels light as air.

Soon enough they detangle themselves and all it takes is one grimace at the sticky mess on his stomach before it’s suddenly whisked away by the cool tingle of a cleaning charm.

“Show off,” Draco mutters as he nudges his shoulder into Harry’s.

The laugh that fills the room in response is one Draco has missed dearly, warm and deep.

Its sometime late in the evening when Harry leaves. Draco kisses him back when Harry leans on his toes to reach him, loving the way the other man leans into him and knowing he will miss everything about it until he sees Harry again.

Draco smiles softly as he watches Harry cross the threshold, jog down his three front steps, and bounce into the truck. Walking to his desk, a winding Waylon between his legs, he picks his quill up because he’s got a few more things to say.

_Time and space blend together until all that’s left and all that matters is here and now. Green eyes and a fluttering heart._

“How do you do that?” Harry asks, his voice next to Draco’s ear.

“Do what?” Draco swallows and tries to jolt his heart back into beating because, _good Merlin_ , when did Harry learn to sneak up on people like that? Last time Draco had seen him he’d been petting Waylon in the entryway after Draco had flung the door open with a  quick wave of his hand. He’d told Harry to wait for him in the drawing room whilst he wrapped up some writing.

But when Draco turns, Harry is peering over his shoulder with his chest so close to Draco’s back that he’d only have to lean back _this much_ and they’d be touching. He covers his work as casually as he can with his hands in hopes of shielding it from the man’s prying eyes.

“Time and space blending, fluttering hearts…” Harry waves his hands in the air with quick dusting motions of his fingers. “It’s all so wistfully romantic. Almost sickeningly so.”

“Sickeningly?” Draco twists and stands, abandoning his work and nearly knocking the curly-haired man over with his abruptness. “Are you sure that’s the word you’re looking for?”

“I think I saw something about green eyes?” he waggles his eyebrows.

“Oh, do shut up.”

Potter’s got this odd glint in his eyes that look like a mossy lake, liquid and endless. The right side of his mouth is wearing his little half smile that Draco’s eyes can’t help but gravitate towards when he says, “Nobody actually speaks like that, do they?”

The blond takes a step forward. A flare of something sparks in Draco’s stomach when Potter doesn’t mirror him with a backward step. This feels so shockingly familiar, almost as if Draco is experiencing some form of deja vu. He knows they’ve been in this exact situation before except last time it wasn’t in Draco’s office but inside castle walls that sometimes still appear in his dreams, though not nearly as often now.

“Maybe not an utter barbarian like yourself,” Draco sniffs. He’s offended, deeply so because Potter’s just criticized his livelihood, but he’s also a little intrigued because the way Potter’s eyes roam his face, eyes, lips, and back in quick succession is just doing it for him.

“Well you don’t talk like that,” Potter points out.

“I wrote it, didn’t I?”

Potter takes another step forward, almost challengingly so, the tip of his chin up defiantly at Draco and thick eyebrows narrowed. “Well, you certainly don’t talk to _me_ like that.”

This throws Draco for a loop and he’s got to shake himself before he says, “It can’t always play out how it does in the stories, now can it?” Potter’s eyes flick down to Draco’s lips again while his tongue darts out to wet his own. “Predictable is boring.”

The corner of Potter’s mouth lifts more and Draco’s palms become slick. This close, Draco can see faint laugh lines begin to crinkle in. He thinks they’re beautiful. He takes a step forward without even thinking about it and they’re _so_ close. So close that Draco has to think to breathe and remind himself not to do something dramatic like grab Potter by the collar and-

“To be fair,” Potter smirks, voice low yet playful still. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Glad I’m not disappointing you,” Draco murmurs.

“And I can promise I won’t be expecting you to kiss me,” Potter whispers, tilting his head to the side slightly. Draco’s breath hitches and Potter nudges closer still.

And then Draco’s leaning in and it feels like falling.

_The End._

  



End file.
